


You Rock My Boat

by matsuohka (agggron)



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, PWP, i'm gomen, this is literally just an excuse for porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:26:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agggron/pseuds/matsuohka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thought I finally understood how to be free, free, free, free. I wonder if you were aware how much you rock my boat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Rock My Boat

His skin feels electric.

He tells himself it's the thrill of the race, the rush that should go through any swimmer when their hand hits the wall and their head breaks the surface and they see they've won. He tells himself it's the shouts, and the claps on the back, and the cool air touching the water still dripping from him.

He tells himself, but it's not.

It's the eyes he'd felt on him from the moment he'd stepped onto the starting block, his pulse a slow and steady beat - until he'd glanced up to see that intent gaze and a red and black uniform to match. There in the balcony, the spectator's lips had curled into a smirk, and Haru knows why. 

Because that smirk was the spark that stared the electricity running down his spine, crawling so slowly that when he heard the whistle and dove into the water, he almost felt as though it was pulling him backwards. 

Still, he wins, but there's no thrill in it; the only thing he feels when he slips from the water and lets the peacefulness of swimming run off him in rivulets is a tightness in his chest when he glances up again and sees the balcony empty.

I want to stay behind, he says, I want to swim a few laps on my own before heading home, and he sends them all away. He doesn't want to talk about victory or about his time or about the crestfallen looks on the other team's faces when they'd lost. Competition isn't the thing he's been missing all this time, and he knows that - but he doesn't know how to put it into words and explain to them all why, at the end of a race, he has to force a smile onto his face and force himself to take the endless stream of compliments.

Haru swims his laps and slows his fast-beating heart, but even with eyes open behind his goggles he can see that smirk and the way it had faltered, softened, just before he'd dived. That red and black, that Samezuka hadn't even belonged here - it wasn't his competition, wasn't even his school's competition - and yet there he'd been. There he'd been, leaning forward on the railing, lifting one hand to reach back and snap the band of the cap he'd been wearing. 

Wet footprints mark his trail to the locker room and each step echoes to tell him how alone he is. It's late; narrow windows high on the walls of the locker room are dark, and through some of them he can sees the stars. All the rest of the swimmers are probably asleep in their beds now, some dreaming of the weight of the trophy they'd been handed in victory, and others nursing the wounds of defeat. Too easily, Haru's mind wanders to the one swimmer that hadn't touched the water, hadn't emerged from it winner or loser. Is he asleep in bed, too?

What is he dreaming of?

He doesn't care, though the way he shuts the door of his locker too hard betrays that as a lie. And then, from far-off, a sound to mirror it - but it's not an echo. Haru's hand freezes on the towel he has draped over his shoulders, poised to dry off his hair. He remains facing the lockers, eyes downcast and muscles tense, and he doesn't see the other young man approach so much as feel him. With each echoing footfall, Haru's heart beats faster. Faster, faster, until he feels as though he'll never catch his breath again. 

He doesn't get a chance to.

Long fingers wrap around his upper arm and use that grip to turn him around, push him up against the lockers. The same hand reaches for the towel and rips it from around Haru's shoulders, tossing it aside, and then suddenly there are fingertips sliding through his damp hair, nails dragging and making his lips part and his mouth run dry.

Lips hover over his and behind them are sharp teeth; distantly, Haru thinks, _he's going to eat me alive_ before a voice sounds between them. "Don't say a word," it orders, and Haru doesn't protest because he can't find his own voice, anyway. All he can do is let out a slow, shaking breath, trying to make his lungs work again, trying to find some control, but it's stolen away in a matter of seconds when those hovering lips get closer, and closer, and then touch his.

It's not gentle. It's not slow, or leisurely, or exploratory but hard and desperate and a long time coming. The hands in his hair tighten their grip and Haru's own hands respond in kind, grabbing onto the other swimmer's lean hips and pulling that body closer. The collision finally pulls a noise from Haru's throat and it's tasted by the tongue pushing past his lips, swallowed greedily, a delicacy for him alone.

He feels as though the drops of water still on his skin might evaporate with the heat that begins between their two long bodies. The metal of the lockers at his back is no longer cold to the touch and his skin is sticking to it and he's feeling everything, every last little thing, even the rise and fall of the chest pressed against his own and the slight hitch in it when Haru's hands slip underneath the hem of the other boy's shirt to find bare skin.

But it's not enough just to brush his fingertips against it. He wants to feel that bare skin against his own and so he pushes the shirt up, pulls on it, tries to get it off but his mind is too wrapped up in the lips moving against his own to realize that he won't be able to do it without a little help. But he doesn't have to ask, because the other boy lets out a short, frustrated noise and pulls back to rip the offending article of clothing off, throwing it aside to join the towel that had been abandoned somewhere on the floor. 

It's in that moment where contact ceases that Haru remembers his own mind and remembers that maybe, just maybe, he should put a stop to it. He takes a shuddering breath and the only thing he can get out is the boy's name-- " _Rin._ " --before he's pressed against the lockers again, the weight of Rin's body pinning him there and the pressure of Rin's knee pressed up between his legs steal away any and all reasoning. There's so much skin, so much tight and coiled muscle and red marks where fingertips have pressed too hard. 

And then Rin starts to move. It's barely there, at first, just a slight tilt in his hips, but then it becomes more rhythmic, a slow rolling that reminds Haru of how waves wash onto a shore. Rin is the ocean and he's the sand - but no, no, the sand doesn't move to meet the ocean and that's just what he's doing. His own hips are pushing forward when Rin's bear down and soon they're crashing together faster, fast enough that each stolen breath is labored and harsh, if they can catch one between kisses. He's uncomfortably hard within the tight lycra of his suit and maybe if they were somewhere else, maybe if they weren't so alone and if the lights in the locker room weren't so low, he might have been ashamed.

But he can't find it in himself to be ashamed, not even when Rin presses his palm against that stiff length, not even when the touch makes him arch his back and let out a low, encouraging noise into the other boy's mouth.

Lips pressed against his own pull into that smirk again, that electric smirk. Haru wants to be angry at it, but sure fingertips are slowly tracing the length of him. The swimsuit leaves nothing to the imagination, not even how eager he is for the touch. His hips twitch and his breath leaves him in a rush when Rin cups him through the fabric and strokes him in long, firm motions. He needs something to do with his hands, something that'll keep him from giving in entirely to this feeling, so he reaches for the waistband of Rin's pants-- only to have his wandering fingers slapped away. Before he has time to react, the other boy shoves Haru's hands over his head and pins them there against the locker with a strong grip on his wrists.

"What are you--" There is a protest on Haru's tongue but Rin quiets it with his mouth, pulling Haru's bottom lip between his teeth and biting down not hard enough to draw blood but enough to make Haru close his eyes and succumb to a shiver that races down his spine. Rin's hand seems to follow the same path, only down the front of him, fingertips dipping into the bumps and ridges of lean muscle on Haru's abdomen and then slipping beneath the waistband of his swimsuit. 

At the first touch, in the first seconds after Rin wraps his hand around that length, Haru knows he's lost. It doesn't matter how many races he wins, how many medals and trophies he collects - he'll always lose to Rin. In this, he'll always lose.

And willingly.

He has to break away from the kiss and tilt his head back, breathing heavily, because Rin has a tight grip on him and that hand is moving up and down, faster and faster until it slowly and relents and makes him think the other boy's showing some kind of mercy. But the mercy never lasts. All it takes is the pad of Rin's thumb or the flick of his wrist and Haru's writhing again, pulling at the grip on his wrists and shifting his hips, though he can never decide if he wants to push forward with them or pull back. 

Too much sensation. Rin's lips are never idle, his tongue never still, his hot breath always washing over Haru's flushed skin. He knows that in the morning when he wakes up and steps in front of the mirror he'll see marks peppered down the length of his neck, bruises on his throat that'll remind him. But how could he forget? How could he ever forget this pressure building inside of him?

A pressure that will soon reach its breaking point. "Rin--" His voice is strained, tell-tale. The other boy's lips retreat and Haru opens his eyes to see where they've gone and to maybe chase after them - but then right before him is Rin's red gaze, and there's something burning in it.

"Say it again."

Immediately, Haru balks. There's a command in Rin's voice that he automatically wants to disobey. Why should he listen? Why should he--

But then Rin's hand stops, and Haru gasps before he can stop himself, "Rin!"

In another few strokes, Haru begins coming undone. The muscles in his stomach clench and he wants to fold in on himself but he can't, because Rin still has him pinned against the lockers. His chest rises and falls rapidly in labored breath, and on every exhale another new sound leaves him. A moan, a groan, a whimper, a plea, noises that only get more desperate as the seconds pass - more desperate when Haru locks gazes with Rin, whose eyes are half-lidded and shadowed with something Haru's never seen there before.

He doesn't have time to figure out what it might mean. He's standing on the edge of a precipice, barely balancing, and it only takes one more stroke of Rin's hand to send him tumbling over the edge of it. His hips jerk and his muscles tighten until they tremble. His back bows and he wants so badly to reach out and grab onto Rin, to dig his nails in, but he's still trapped and all he can do is flex his fingers and thrust his hips into the hand still slowly stroking him.

The last few lingering touches of Rin's hand draw low, breathless sounds from Haru. But then the hand withdraws and so does the grip keeping Haru's wrists pressed against the metal lockers; he leans back heavily, trying to find his balance and trying to work out why he already misses the heat of the other boy's touch.

Rin bends down and picks up Haru's towel, wiping off his hand. He glances up and Haru blinks when they look at one another. He should say something. He should do something, but all he manages to do is lick his lips.

Perhaps Rin takes it as an invitation, because within seconds, he's there again, pressing a long and lingering kiss to Haru's lips. Long, but it feels too short, and soon Haru is left there again. The soiled towel hits him in the chest and falls into his open hands. "You should probably take a shower," Rin says, something smug in his tone and in his face, though Haru's surprised to see a frown on that mouth rather than a smirk.

Soon, Rin has his shirt back on and he's turning away, moving toward the exit, but Haru doesn't let him get too far. Moving more quickly than he would have imagined himself capable after what just happened, he steps forward and grabs onto Rin's wrist. He swallows once, parts his lips, and says,

"Come with me."


End file.
